


Every Sin

by Wish_I_Had_A_Tail



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Comfort/Angst, Fanaticism, Hurt/Comfort, I apologize in advance, Margali is my favourite mom archetype who will do anything for her child, Religion, comic influence, happy mother's day I guess, mama bear Margali, small town Winzeldorf, this is the only explanation for those scars I will accept, this is the only movieverse fic I will probably ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wish_I_Had_A_Tail/pseuds/Wish_I_Had_A_Tail
Summary: How did Nightcrawler really get his scars?





	Every Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my entire week :)

He wasn’t supposed to teleport more than four times a day. After his mother found a limp tail snaking out from the bushes one afternoon, she had been insistent: until he could manage it four times in one day without swaying in place, he wasn’t to attempt a fifth. He had protested at first, but only half-heartedly. Even three still made him dizzy sometimes – if they were close together, or over a long distance, or he hadn’t eaten. And there were still times that he couldn’t manage to do it at all. So he’d reluctantly agreed to a cap of four.

But that had been weeks of practice ago. And his mother had left down that afternoon.

When she told him ‘you can’t’, he still sometimes heard it as a challenge instead of a prohibition. So when there was a knock at Kurt’s door, he teleported down to answer it. He opened the door in a cloud of fading smoke, and Werner’s brows shot up at the sight. Kurt was almost as surprised to see him.

“Werner,” he said, “hi!” and promptly lost his balance. He fell back onto his rear and hung his head dizzily between his knees. Werner’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Kurt?” he stepped forward on instinct.

“I’m fine,” Kurt assured him, breathy. He focused hard to keep the black at the rim of his vision from spreading. Werner didn’t come any closer.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said again, with too much brightness in his voice. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. “Just one… moment.” It passed eventually, and he climbed to his feet looking equal parts sheepish and proud. “See?” he said. His legs were barely shaking.

Werner’s brows were creased with concern. “You looked like you were about to faint.”

“But I didn’t!” Kurt announced, triumphant. “So no need to be worried.”

“You were… disappearing?” Werner asked with a frown.

“Teleporting,” Kurt corrected. He paused for a beat. “Don’t tell mama. I’m not supposed to do it this much.”

Werner’s frown deepened. “You shouldn’t do it at all,” he said, gently reproachful.

“I’ll be more careful,” Kurt promised. “I thought it would be okay, it was only down the stairs.”

“That isn’t what I mean.” He sighed, then a familiar faint smile came over his face. He ran a hand through his blonde hair. It was at the longest Kurt had ever seen it. “I came by to check on you,” he admitted. “Make sure you hadn’t starved to death without Margali.”

Kurt softened, touched. It wasn’t often that people that came from town into the circus grounds. Less frequent still that they came to Kurt and Margali’s home. Werner was a rare exception. A family friend.

“She only left this afternoon.”

“So it won’t be until tomorrow that you starve,” he jibed.

Kurt grinned. He stepped aside. “Do you want to come in? I thought you were out of town too, for work.”

“Not this week,” Werner said, not stepping forward. “When is Margali back?”

“Not tomorrow, but the day after.”

Werner nodded thoughtfully. He lingered in the doorway, leaning one broad shoulder on the frame. “I haven’t seen you in church for a while,” he said.

Some of the sunniness faded from Kurt’s face. He looked down guiltily. “Yeah.”

“How come?”

Kurt shrugged. “I haven’t been able to make it,” he said evasively.

“The circus is in its off season,” Werner pointed out. Kurt sighed. Bit his lip in thought. When he spoke, the words were hesitant.

“Father Dieter says the church is supposed to be a place of belonging.”

Werner nodded enthusiastically. “It is.” Kurt shifted from foot to foot.

“It doesn’t always feel like that for me,” he admitted, looking up. “And, when I’m there… I don’t think it feels that way for everybody else, either.”

Werner was older enough than Kurt that his look of disappointment managed to cut him deep. “Maybe if you came more often?” he offered gently. Kurt shrugged.

“I’d like to, but…”

“Your condition,” Werner finished for him. Kurt faltered. “It _is_ getting worse,” Werner prodded. They looked at each other from across the doorway. Kurt swallowed.

“It’s not a condition,” he said softly.

“Kurt,” Werner tried, “I’m worried about you.”

“Werner, listen,” Kurt began, gesturing down at himself. “This isn’t what keeps from going to church,” he insisted. “It’s what people say when I do go. Or how they look at me.”

“Then let’s go now,” Werner challenged. “let’s come to evening mass. Hardly anyone will be there.” His voice went soft. “I think it’ll be good for you.”

Werner stepped back out of the house and spread his arms invitingly. Kurt’s feet stayed planted in place. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d ventured into town without his mother or someone from the circus accompanying him. What he remembered clearly, though, was some of the whispers he’d heard, and the comments he’d gotten, and the judgmental glances of dozens of normal eyes. But Werner’s gaze was friendly, and his smile soft and welcoming, and praying alone on the chimney was beginning to get somewhat depressing.

“Alright,” Kurt agreed. He grabbed his keys decisively and followed Werner across the circus grounds toward the silhouette of Winzeldorf in the distance.

It wasn’t that he’d been told outright he wasn’t welcome in the church. It had been a few things, really; complaints on and off when he’d been younger and tried to attend school. The things he had heard people still said to his mother. A few pointed sermons where the implications had been more than clear. Less and less people came to his defense, even behind closed doors. It had gotten worse as he got older. He was not half as cute now as thirteen as he’d been at three, and as he’d lost the childish features softening his appearance, the reactions he received had hardened in kind. Over time, he’d gone from being first in line for communion to sitting in the very back to not coming at all.

Maybe some of the blame was his, he conceded. Relationships, even with God, required effort on both parts. Coming more often might be the answer after all; maybe then he would feel less like he belonged among the gargoyles on the roof instead of with the worshippers inside. He’d said as much to his mother once, and her eyes flickered with so much sadness for a moment before she set her jaw.

“If Dieter makes you feel like that, you shouldn’t go,” she had told him. “It’s not your responsibility to fix people’s ignorance.”

Kurt knew that. But still, he felt some obligation to try.

The heavy doors were propped open as if in anticipation of their arrival. Kurt let his hand trail over the wood as they passed inside. He took a deep breath. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed being here, under the soft glow of the sun through the coloured glass. He missed the faint echo of his feet quietly padding along the stone. His tail wrapped around his leg on instinct, as if anticipating the sneers that would be sent in its direction.

A loud voice summoned his attention. “Kurt! My boy, so glad you could join us.”

Father Dieter walked down the aisle to greet Kurt, looking the happiest he had ever looked to see him. There were only four other people there, three of them sitting beside each other in the front pew, chatting quietly. One of them was Werner’s father Hans, and Werner went up to greet him. Rachel was at the organ, shuffling around loose pages of faded yellow sheet music. None of them turned to look at him, besides one or two brief glances when they heard the priest say his name.

“Hello, Father,” Kurt said. “Nice to see you.”

“How is Margali?” he asked.

“She’s well,” Kurt said politely. This was the most they’d spoken in months. “Out of town for a few days.”

“Oh yes,” Father Dieter said knowingly, “I’d heard.” For an instant, Kurt couldn’t quite read the expression on the priest’s face. His eyes filled with something sharp and gleaming. But then his features smoothed back out into the pleasant smile Kurt had been greeted with. “Well, give her my best.”

“I will.”

“My son,” he said, glancing behind him. “Would you help me bring out the candles for mass?”

Kurt nodded and dutifully followed him. He led him to the baptistery, tucked behind a discreet door to the side of the altar. The three people in the front row had gone silent. Father Dieter moved aside to let Kurt pass ahead of him, and he stepped into the small room and stopped, confused.

“Where—” he began, and then saw the font. He’d attended only one baptism in his life, aside from his own, but he recognized it immediately. The white, knee-high marble basin had been drained of water, and in its place stood a heavy wooden chair. Kurt stared at it for a long moment. He turned around, confused, and Father Dieter’s eyes were sharp again. Everyone else who had been in the church when Kurt entered suddenly filed into the room as well, until the six of them were crowding up the space and the last of them, Lise, closed the door behind her.

“Kurt,” Father Dieter began, “we’ve been worried about you for a while.” Kurt’s eyes flashed to Werner. He gave him a small encouraging smile in return.

“I’m alright,” Kurt said.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Father Dieter offered, and gestured to the chair. Kurt shook his head slowly.

“I’m okay standing. Why is there a chair in the – what is this, Father?”

Father Dieter sighed and took a step forward. On instinct, Kurt drew back and felt the cold marble against the backs of his legs. “My son,” he started, “this demon inside you has been getting stronger for some time.”

Kurt stared, shocked. “There’s no—”

“You’ve been losing this fight,” he argued patiently. “First, of course, it was the way you look. I thought maybe it was being kept at bay. But people have seen you running around on all fours like a beast. And now this new sorcery where you disappear in a puff of smoke. My boy, next you’ll be growing horns.”

“No,” he shook his head ardently, “that’s not true.”

“We don’t want that for you, either,” Hans agreed. He looked a lot like Werner, Kurt realized just then. Only taller and broader and with a full beard where Werner was still smoothly shaven. He did not have the same friendliness in his eyes. “We’re all here to help, Kurt. Why don’t you sit down on the chair?” he repeated.

“Help how?” Kurt insisted. “I –” his eyes darted to the door. “I’d like to leave. This was a bad idea. I’d like to go home.”

The priest sighed. His expression was rueful, like he’d been tasked with a terrible burden. “Not just yet. Sit down and we’ll talk about it.”

“I don’t want to sit down!” he exploded, and Hans took a large step forward. His boot boomed against the floor. Kurt was holding himself very tense.

“It’ll be easier,” Rachel said, “if you agree.”

Kurt’s eyes were very wide. “What does that mean?” he asked her, astonished. “Or what?”

“Or we’ll have to be forceful,” Father Dieter explained. His voice was calm and even, and it made Kurt’s hair stand on end.

“You’d do that?” he asked, disbelieving. He focused on Werner and bore his gaze into him, eyes brimming with frightened tears. “You’d do that to me?” he challenged.

Werner’s face was set in pained resoluteness. “People don’t always know when they need help,” he said. Or maybe recited. “Or what’s good for them.”

Kurt shut his eyes and tried to teleport away. His body wouldn’t respond, all his reserves drained. It wasn’t even a close thing; he barely felt the responsive tingling in the back of his head. He opened his eyes to see Hans reaching for him and reflexively, he tried to slip around him and lunge for the door.

Kurt was faster, but there was a wall of people blocking his way. Werner planted himself steadfastly in front of the door and grabbed Kurt’s shoulders. “Calm down,” he pleaded, “Just _listen._ ”

Kurt was about to shout at him to let him through, but Hans cut him off before he could get the words out. He grabbed Kurt from behind and hoisted him up, thick arms crushing tight around Kurt’s chest. Then he stepped into the font and planted Kurt onto the chair. He kicked and struggled as hard as he could, winding himself quickly. Werner and Rachel both sat on the edges, leaned over, and each grabbed one of his feet. They held him hard, a bruising grip around each ankle, and fastened his legs to the legs of the chair with hasty loops of rope.

Kurt clawed at Hans’ arms, desperate for air. Rachel grabbed a hand and tried to force it down to the armrest, but he wrenched it free. Hans tightened his grip, and Kurt began to make gasping, breathless noises. His eyes were wide and frantic.

“Hans,” Father Dieter said sharply, “loosen up. You’re going to suffocate the poor boy.”

“Calm down,” Hans instructed Kurt. “Put your hands down and I’ll let you breathe.”

Kurt reluctantly obeyed; he let his hands down onto the armrests of the chair. Hans relented, arms loosening around Kurt’s upper body, and Kurt took in a deep, grateful breath.

“Don’t,” he gasped as they tied him down, “please.”

One arm was bound down in a cuff of rope snaking up his forearm, and Kurt tried to bat Werner away from his other arm with the spade of his tail. “Don’t,” he said again.

Someone grabbed his tail and wound it forcefully around a back leg of the chair. It was secured there with more rope and then Hans, Werner, and Rachel sat back on the lip of the font, panting. He pulled with all five limbs, to no avail. Breathing shakily, he looked up at Father Dieter with glassy eyes.

“I’m sorry we had to do that,” he said evenly.

“Let me go,” Kurt begged, and his voice cracked on the last word.

“Soon,” Father Dieter promised.

“What’s is this, Father? Why am I here?” His voice hitched, “Why did you tie me up?”

The priest clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at Kurt with something like concern, but colder. “To help you,” he said calmly. “Like we said.” They were all looking at him, now.

“I’m scared,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be.” The priest turned to Rachel and Lise. “Cut off his clothes.”

Werner and Hans stepped out to let the women into the font. Kurt kept very still as they ran scissors up his pant legs and sleeves, then tugged the fabric off him and threw it on the ground. The keys in his pocket jingled once when they hit the floor. When he was stripped to his briefs, Kurt started to breathe faster. The ambush in the church, the chair in the font, being tied down, now having his clothes removed – these were all individually terrifying things with no clear connection. He did not know what they were leading up to, but knew he was frightened of it. He was very certain of that.

“Father… Werner… Rachel…” he looked each one in the eyes. “You know me. You know I’m not evil. You don’t need to do… whatever you’re going to do.”

“Kurt,” Werner said, frustrated, “Father Dieter knows what he’s talking about, alright? Let him help you. The demon—”

“There’s no demon!” he snapped, raising his voice. “Let me go right now! Right _now_!” He bared his teeth and lurched forward as far and as hard as he could. No one was swayed by his outburst; they only looked at him with vague disappointment, like this was exactly what they had expected. He held his ground for a moment longer before his face crumpled. “I’m sorry I don’t come to church,” he squeaked out.

Father Dieter narrowed his eyes. “Don’t apologize to _me,_ ” he said pointedly. He nodded to Lise, and she scooted over along the marble until she was right beside him; close enough that he could feel her warmth on his arm. He jolted in his seat when she popped open a silver marker. Lise had been the reader for the last three sermons Kurt had actually attended. She and her granddaughter were circus fans. He’d seen them in the audience last month. Now, she didn’t meet his eyes.

The marker trailed carefully over his shoulder, the ink cold as it slid along his skin. He watched the silver line grow with wide eyes. If all they wanted was to draw on him, he thought with absurd, obstinate optimism, they only needed to have asked. Lise focused intently on her task, gripping his arm with both hands to steady herself as she drew. She made intricate, precise angles and swirls, and Kurt’s fascination grew with them alongside a feeling of deep, churning dread. He was almost hypnotized watching the silver decorate his skin.

“What are these?” Kurt fretted.

“Alchemical symbols,” Lise explained. It was the first thing she’d said. “For change.”

“And angelic sigils,” Father Dieter added. “A very old holy alphabet. Together they represent the transmutation of sin into something pure.”

Kurt looked down at the patterns looping over his bicep. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said weakly.

A deep sigh was Father Dieter’s reply. “You’re struggling,” he said like it was a concession. His eyes went upward briefly, searching for the right words. “You have a – condition. You’ve been struggling your whole life against whatever demonic influence managed to get a hold of you at birth. And I’m afraid you’re losing.”

“Losing what?” he asked desperately. Father Dieter blinked as if he was surprised by the question.

“The fight for your soul.”

The patterns grew down his arm to the elbow, then trailed back up and across his collarbone, spreading over his chest. It was just ink, but Kurt was beginning to feel increasingly claustrophobic the more the designs covered him. They continued down his chest and ribs, all the way to his belly. She struggled a bit drawing over the folds of skin that shifted with his heavy breaths.

Lise stood, stretched with a soft groan, then came to Kurt’s other side to recreate the same pattern in a mirror image. Every minute or so, her hand would stop. She would move back, look at her work from a distance, then come closer and resume, satisfied with the symmetry. He had no idea how long it took her, but when she finished, there was silver ink standing out over his upper body to the elbows, the tops of his thighs, his face, and some at the very base of his tail. She climbed out of the font at last, took a few steps back, and looked over Kurt in his entirety. He felt cold under her careful scrutiny.

“Fantastic, Lise,” Father Dieter said, touching her lightly on the back. “Beautiful. Thank you.”

She beamed at him. “Of course, Father.” Her eyes darted to Kurt, and she spoke next in a low voice. “I think I will leave now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Father Dieter pulled a vial out of his pocket and held it between his palms.

“That’s a lot more than I thought,” Werner said to his father under his breath. He looked apprehensive, biting the nail of his thumb as his eyes trailed over Kurt’s body. Hans pulled his hand gently down away from his mouth.

“It’s how many is needed,” he assured him. “We’ll try to be quick.” Lise closed the door quietly behind her, and Kurt could feel the air thicken with tension. The faces around him were solemn. Some nameless horror lingered over his head, and he could feel it swaying precariously above him, ready to drop down at some unknown signal. Rachel rolled her wrists, cracking the joints.

“Now we pray,” Father Dieter announced.

“You can untie me,” Kurt said earnestly. “I’ll pray with you.”

“I’m sorry, son, I know it’s uncomfortable. As soon as we’re finished, we’ll let you go.”

“Finished praying?”

Father Dieter flattened his lips. “Repeat after me,” was all he said. He led Kurt in a long series of prayers, and Kurt parroted them back as he was told. Every so often, the priest would sprinkle holy water onto his body, each time without warning. When they finished, Kurt’s mouth felt like it was full of sand. He waited for them to release him, but no one made any movement toward the ropes. For a long moment, they all just stood there, looking at each other. Like they were bracing themselves.

“What happens now?” Kurt asked when he could no longer stand the silence. He shifted slightly on the seat, adjusting his position as best he could, as tightly bound as he was. Looking at his restraints made his heart jump in his chest, and so he kept his eyes up. Hans whispered something into Rachel’s ear, and she nodded at him. Werner was biting his nail again.

“The symbols Lise has drawn,” Father Dieter began carefully. “They are going to purify you. And make your body inhospitable to any demon who would want to influence you. Once we’re done, you’ll be free of all the sinful temptations you’ve been struggling with. The disappearing. The aversion to church.” Kurt tried to keep the hurt off his face and nodded like the things Dieter said were perfectly reasonable. He spared a glance around the room. He saw these people almost every day – had they been convinced all this time he was a breath away from total spiritual corruption? How long had they been planning this? How willing would they have been to hurt him if he’d struggled harder? Father Dieter swallowed audibly, a twinge of discomfort in his face for the first time. “But the ink will fade, you see. The symbols will disappear.”

Kurt nodded placidly. “So I should come back when they do?” he offered, cooperative. Werner’s face screwed up, and Kurt knew there was something he had profoundly misunderstood.

“We’re going to make sure they don’t,” Father Dieter said slowly. “Make them permanent.”

Kurt’s stomach clenched like someone had wrung it out. “How?” he breathed. “What do you mean?” Werner stepped forward and reached for him. He went very still as he reached behind his head and unclasped the tiny metal crucifix Kurt wore around his neck.

“I’ll give this back to you after,” he promised.

“After _what_?”

The priest did not answer him, and the room felt suddenly very small. The light through the glass was hazy and faint, and the marble of the font around him nearly glowed in the dimness. The sun must have set. Rachel reached behind herself at the same time Hans flipped on the lights, and Kurt flinched back from the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjusted, he focused on the box in Rachel’s hand, open to reveal two matching black pocketknives sealed in a clear plastic bag.

Kurt felt his mouth go dry. “Wait,” he breathed, pulling against the ropes on sheer reflex. He looked down at the drain in the marble. Understanding hit him like a clap of thunder. “Wait—” Rachel took one blade for herself, and handed Hans the other. “Father, please!” he shouted. “Please! I won’t teleport again, I promise. I _promise_!”

“Don’t worry,” Dieter said, calm as ever. Hans and Rachel sat at either side of Kurt, and he thrashed against his bonds in earnest. “Soon things will be much easier for you.” The knives flanking him sent him into a panic, tears pricking at his eyes from sheer terror. The ropes dug into his skin and did not budge.

“Werner,” he implored, “please tell them. I’m your friend – please, tell them not to cut me.”

The expression on Werner’s face was as if he was the one being carved into. “It’s going to make you better,” he insisted. Kurt’s eyes flashed with betrayal.

“You don’t need to do this,” he insisted to anyone who would listen. “Please, it won’t even work!”

Father Dieter rested his hands on his knees and bent down so he and Kurt were eye level. “My son. It already is working. Why is it you haven’t disappeared out of that chair?”

“No,” Kurt shook his head, staring at him with horror, “that’s not why I can’t—”

“I know it may seem drastic. But something has to be done now, before you get any worse.” He sounded so certain, like he had this conversation every other day.

“I’m not sick,” Kurt croaked, but he already knew he’d lost. Father Dieter pursed his lips.

“I see.” He gave Kurt one last look, scanning his face for something. “I think we’d better get started,” he said, standing up straight. He cleared his throat. “Lord our God,” he began, “give us your blessing, and the strength to purify the evil influence within this boy. Let his skin be the canvas for your holy language, and let Kurt’s soul be saved. Guide our hands, and let us do your work and cleanse the evil from his body. Amen.”

“Amen,” said those present. Then they turned to Kurt, expectant. The intense look on Father Dieter’s face filled Kurt with such blind terror, he couldn’t breathe.

“Amen,” he finally said, trembling. Dieter nodded in satisfaction.

“Let’s begin.”

Hans and Rachel reached up to his shoulders. His breath hitched. “Please don’t—” Kurt began, then cut off with a hiss as the first slice was made. The pocketknives weren’t made to go through flesh. There was some time before they grew accustomed to the sharpness and adjusted for how hard to press to separate the skin.

Kurt gripped the armrests as they cut carefully over the stencils, going over the same incision two, three, four times until it popped open far enough that the edges could no longer touch. It stung like fire. Like burning alive in slow increments of skin. He tried to relax through the searing pain, but the two of them were cutting him at the same time, and he kept being distracted from the fading burn of one slice by a fresh one being opened somewhere else.

He tried to calm himself through it, but the pain wouldn’t fade. They didn’t slow or pause, going at a steady pace along the template Lise had made. It was a monotonous, continuing sensation that didn’t ease or break, didn’t give way even a little. It wasn’t long until he couldn’t endure it, crying softly, gritting his teeth, leaning as much as he could away from the blades. Blood was beginning to pool in the crook of his elbows. He could hear little droplets of it spattering onto the marble below. Rachel completed a symbol by crossing one line through the other, and the sting of the knife raking against an already open wound made him cry out and jerk back. He pulled his shoulder defensively closer to his body, disturbing the collection in his elbow and making it slide down the side of his arm. Rachel stopped, surprised by the sudden movement. Her hand was sticky red where she’d gripped his arm to steady herself.

“Try not to move,” she said softly. “Or we might slip.”

“Please stop,” he choked out.

“We’re almost finished your arms,” she reassured him, bringing the knife back up. “It’ll be done before you know it.” She had taught him a song on the piano once, when he was small. He had climbed up on the stool beside her without asking and she showed him an easy little tune he could play with one finger. He’d played it with his finger, then his tail, then the tip of his nose to make her laugh.

“I thought you liked me,” he said childishly, because it was the only thing he could think to say. He cried out through his teeth when she took up where she’d left off. She tsked sympathetically.

“I do, Kurt.”

Kurt leaned down as far forward as he could, screwing his eyes shut tight. “Does it have to be so deep?” he asked desperately.

“I’m sorry, yes.”

“I’m afraid so, so it scars,” Father Dieter added. Kurt hadn’t noticed him get a stool, but he was sitting on one now, watching with his legs crossed. Werner remained where he was, leaning against the door. His face was pinched tight in a grimace. They finished the designs over his arms, and Kurt felt them pause to look him over.

“That’s enough,” he pleaded. “Maybe that’s enough?”

Father Dieter was unimpressed. “Kurt,” he warned.

Hans walked behind him to start on the ones at the base of his tail while Rachel started in on his collar, a narrow loop of silver ink drawn in the curve of his clavicle. Kurt could feel his pulse flutter against the blade. “Don’t move,” she said seriously, and he stayed stone-still as she began there. He stared forward with terrified eyes, trying not to disturb her even with the force of his breathing.

“There’s only a few here,” Hans said from behind him. He felt a warm hand wrap around his tail. “That’s fine?”

“We all agreed on these, Hans,” Father Dieter reminded him. Kurt felt him press the blade against him in preparation.

“We’re sure we don’t want me to just—”

“Dad!” Werner cut him off, outraged. “No!” There was a beat where father and son looked silently at each other.

“All right,” Hans finally said in a sigh. “All right.”

Kurt’s stomach clenched with terror so intense he almost didn’t feel the next few cuts. He pictured the five of them calmly discussing to what extent he should be mutilated, and the image made him feel suddenly sick to his stomach, saliva rushing into his mouth. He fought the urge to panic, instead steadying his breathing and eventually swallowing down his nausea with a burst of will. He should have eaten something after that last teleport, he realized absently. His face was damp with sweat. The illness must have been visible on his face, because Werner rushed over at once and slid his fingers under Kurt’s palm.

“Just squeeze my hand,” he soothed. Hans came around and started at his ribs, and Kurt did just that. Blood ran down his body and stained the hem of his briefs. It pooled in his belly button. It halted its creeping progress down his chest each time he took a heaving breath.

“It hurts,” Kurt said tightly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The more of him became covered in the careful wounds, the more the building pain became unbearable. Kurt started crying out in earnest when it peaked to intolerability, begging intermittently for them to stop, sobbing violently as his inhibitions faded into nothing. He started to feel very cold. Kurt opened and shut his eyes in turn, unsure which way made it more manageable. Vainly, he tried to distract himself – think or something else, focus on something in the room, recite something in his mind. He mostly squeezed Werner’s hands, hard at first, but less and less strongly as he exhausted himself with the effort.

They covered his chest, his stomach, the tops of his legs. The sound of dribbling onto the marble was so frequent now, he couldn’t make out the individual drops. It sounded like the soft patter of rain. The recitations in his head helped until he started to feel too woozy to remember them. Then his thoughts became disjointed, just flashes of emotion and imagery and the deep undercurrent of desire for the pain to end. He let his head drop and looked down; in some of the wounds on his thighs, he could see slivers of spongy yellow fat peeking out through the blood.

And then they stopped. First Hans drew back and left Kurt a reprieve, and then Rachel too pulled away and did not start back up. Slowly, he summoned the strength to lift his head. It felt heavy – much heavier than it should have, but Kurt couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it. He forced his gaze to Father Dieter.

“Please,” was all he said.

“Maybe we can take a break,” Father Dieter conceded. He squinted from time to time, like he was straining to keep his eyes open. Kurt realized that he had no idea how much time had passed. For all he knew, it could have been days. “There’s a little more to do.”

“Tomorrow,” Kurt begged. “In the morning.”

“It’s best to finish sooner, Kurt,” he said. “We should contain the demon now, before it claims you again and you disappear.”

“I won’t,” Kurt said, and shook his head. Or tried to, at least. He really couldn’t tell if his body was at all listening to him. His mouth felt dry.

“You might, if we give you time to regain your strength.” Father Dieter looked at his watch. “A half hour break,” he suggested.

Kurt didn’t respond. Hans and Rachel stood up and stretched, and Kurt could hear the clicking of their spines straightening out. Their hands were stark red in the white light of the room. They set the knives down back in the box they’d taken them out of in the back of the room. Werner opened the door for them. Then it was only Werner and the priest who remained.

Kurt felt exhausted. His heart pounded; he could follow the blood pumping through his body by the progression of throbbing pain. His eyes glazed over, staring unfocused at a spot on his own leg. A drop of blood pooled on the edge of his thigh and he followed it down, mesmerized as it rolled over his leg and broke on the white marble. He had a sudden urge to touch it, strained a toe to reach out, but his foot wouldn’t move. He pulled, dazed, a few more times before remembering the rope around his ankle. Why was he here?

A moment of cool relief on his shoulder brought him back into awareness. Werner stood beside him, dabbing a wet towel against his wounds. The pink water ran down into the drain. He smiled warmly when he saw Kurt watching him.

“You’re doing really well,” he encouraged him. “Just going to start cleaning you up.”

The sound of water running down onto the stone made him lick his lips. “Can I have some water?”

Werner paused. He turned to Dieter with a questioning look. Father Dieter shook his head.

“Sorry, my boy,” he said regretfully. “Not until we’re done.”

Kurt didn’t react; he didn’t have the strength. He let his head drop slowly back down as he felt the cold towel again on his skin. It was a small shock each time, immediately followed by a short, soothing reprieve from pain. He felt himself fading, focusing in on the sensation, and it wasn’t long until his eyes began to flutter shut.

“Kurt,” Father Dieter said sharply. Kurt snapped his eyes back open. “Not yet, my boy.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He breathed deeply as Werner dabbed the cold towel on his chest, over his legs, once on the symbols throbbing on the base of his tail. He swallowed dryly. “What are you going to do now?”

They both seemed surprised by the question. “Just a few more symbols,” Werner said. “And then we’re done.”

“Where?” Kurt asked drowsily.

When neither of them answered him, Kurt forced his eyes up. The priest was staring wordlessly at him. It took Kurt a moment to realize that he wasn’t looking him in the eyes, rather Dieter’s gaze was just off of them, studying his face. And then Kurt’s stomach dropped as he remembered that Lise had drawn symbols there too.

The door opened at Kurt’s horrific realization. Hans was the first to come back in, his hairline slightly wet, like he’d splashed water on his face. His hands were clean. Kurt tucked his face into his shoulder the best he could, his breath quickening. He rifled through his memory, tried to remember the marker going over his face, to recall how many symbols she had drawn there, and found himself coming up blank. That only terrified him further. How long would it take?

“Not there,” he said urgently. “Please—” he took what was meant to be a steadying breath in, and the exhale came out as feverish sobs. Once he’d begun, he couldn’t rein himself in, nearly choking on the force of his own hysteria.

“Kurt, calm down,” Rachel said, a bit taken aback. “It’s just a few more.” He shook his head desperately, crying huge, ugly tears.

“I can’t,” he babbled, “I can’t, not – please. _Please.”_ She took a few steps toward him, and he yanked upwards on the rope with what little strength he had left. His wrists ached from the force of his earlier struggling. “Anywhere else,” Kurt begged. Rachel faltered with the knife, not stepping any closer. “Please not,” he gasped, “not my face.” The only sound in the room was the sound of Kurt’s panicked pleas, and the faint squeaking of the ropes pulling against the wood. Rachel turned to Father Dieter with a doubtful gleam in her eye.

“Father, maybe the ones we’ve done are enough?”

“Rachel,” he sighed.

“Or we can move them elsewhere?” she suggested. “We could—”

Father Dieter cut her off with a withering glare. “If this is proving too difficult for you,” he said coolly, “perhaps you can let us finish off. Take a walk around and come back.” Rachel swallowed audibly. She took a last look at Kurt, bloody and breaking down in the chair they’d tied him to, and nodded slowly.

“Yes, Father,” she said, defeated. “Maybe that would be best.”

She walked toward the door and stopped in front of Werner, holding out the knife blade-downward towards him. He stared at it without comprehension. “Your father will have to hold him still,” Rachel explained. He looked back up at her with such apprehension that Kurt thought he might refuse. Slowly, Werner reached forward with a shaky hand. His fingers closed around the hilt, and Rachel stepped out the door without another word.

There was that same sense as before, like the room was bracing itself. Hans walked around and stepped inside the font, pressing up against the back of the chair. Kurt kept his face resolutely tucked into his shoulder. Hans sighed, then tangled his fist in Kurt’s hair and jerked back his head enough that he could slip his other arm under his chin. He braced himself against Kurt’s back and held his head upright.

“Come on,” Hans urged, nodding to Werner. He pulled his astonished eyes away from the knife Rachel had given him to stare at his father. Then down at Kurt. He blinked a few times, as if to clear his head. A moment later, he made himself walk forwards. He stepped into the font and leaned down until he was level with terrified yellow eyes. Kurt tried to struggle out of Hans’ hold, but he could only manage tiny, ineffectual movements in the immobilizing grip. His lips parted like he meant to say something, but no words came out. Werner, too, said nothing. His eyes brimmed with unspoken apology. But still he brought the blade up to Kurt’s cheek. And made the first cut.

When he started, Kurt jerked briefly away from the pain. But Hans held him still, and as Werner continued he went slack with defeat. He took deep breaths and ground his teeth to bear it, staring at a fixed spot in the distance, not bothering to struggle. He stayed mostly silent, too, keeping his mouth closed and letting out restrained whimpers through tightly shut lips.

When Werner brought the point of the blade to the bridge of his nose, Kurt stopped breathing. His fingers gripped the armrests, muscles coiled tight. His eyes were the only part of him that moved, widening as far as they could go and darting rapidly between Werner’s face and the close edge of the blade.

“Just don’t move, okay?” Werner said unsteadily. Kurt shut his eyes.

“Careful,” he said. The word was not even a whisper, just a puff of air. He kept his eyes closed as Werner carved over the designs on his nose with excruciating precision. They both let out a breath when he was done. He finished up with the large pattern on Kurt’s forehead. Those high on the brow and near the hairline bled quicker than the others, warm blood coursing down Kurt’s closed eyelids and congealing in his lashes. Werner set the knife down and wiped Kurt’s eyes with the damp rag.

“We’re done,” he said, to himself at first. Then, louder, “We’re done.” Kurt opened his eyes to look at him. “That’s all of them, Kurt. It’s finished.”

Kurt’s expression didn’t change even as Hans let him go; he stared at Werner with the same blank, tear-stained face and wary eyes. Father Dieter said a few more prayers over him, but this time he didn’t make Kurt repeat them. Kurt barely even heard the words.

“Well, my boy,” Father Dieter said with a smile. “How do you feel?”

Kurt swallowed. The four of them were staring at him, awaiting an answer. He hadn’t even noticed when Rachel came back into the room. Kurt was aware he had to say something back, but for a moment his tongue wouldn’t obey, paralyzed by the prospect of answering wrong.

“Different,” he said hoarsely. Dieter smiled warmly, and Kurt felt himself relax for the first time in hours. The door was steps away. His fingers twitched toward it.

“Let’s get you untied,” Dieter said. Werner cut the ropes at Kurt’s wrists, and they fell limply around Kurt’s hands like coils of ribbon. They were unwound and thrown off to the side. They left deep impressions in Kurt’s skin. When he was entirely freed, Kurt didn’t move to get up off of the chair. He only stretched his tail and rolled his stiff shoulders, waiting for permission.

The door was right there in front of him. He couldn’t pry his eyes away from it, his legs burning to propel himself out of the chair and lunge. He was already imagining the walk home, the cool night air and the feeling of the road under his feet and the patterns of stars. It was achingly close. He was exhausted, so drained and weak that it was only terror at this point keeping him conscious, but he thought maybe the adrenaline would manage to sustain him until his bed. Maybe it would even give him the speed he needed to burst out of the chair and out the door before they could stop him. But Kurt stayed where he was. He’d been hurt so badly already for the crime of existing as is; he preferred not to know what punishment he would receive for trying to run.

The smell of alcohol seared his nostrils, and he turned toward it to find Rachel wetting a rag from a bottle. She set the bottle down on the floor. Liquid sloshed inside it. The rag dripped, heavy and soaked, tiny drops falling to leave brief dark stains on the stone floor before they evaporated away.

“Okay, Kurt,” she said softly, “just one last thing, so you don’t get some sort of infection. Take a deep breath.”

He obeyed, and the damp rag pressed against his shoulders. The pattern of wounds burned angrily at the unexpected chemical invasion. He gritted his teeth at the initial searing pain, but Rachel swiped quickly along his body and he found that the all-over burn was easier to adjust to, like sinking into a hot bath all at once and letting himself melt into the steam. By the time she finished, dabbing along the symbols on his forehead, his features had smoothed out and he sat there looking almost relaxed. He opened his eyes to see Rachel’s face inches from his own.

“All done,” she said.

Kurt nodded, “Thank you.”

She squeezed his hand. He genuinely couldn’t tell if he managed to squeeze back. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, the hammering against his ribs stronger than Kurt thought appropriate for the low, muted fear he had settled into since his bonds were removed. His lips were so dry.

“You look better already,” Rachel said sincerely. “Closer to God.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said robotically.

They had him scoot forwards to the edge of the chair so they could bandage him up. By the time they were done, Kurt imagined he looked like a mummy. Mercifully, no one had offered him a mirror. Someone said something to him about changing the bandages, but he barely heard it, nodding along mindlessly. Dieter put his necklace back on him, and it made him queasy for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. Finally, he let his hands fall into his lap. Werner handed him a glass of water and he drank deeply, holding it up to his mouth with two hands like a small child.

“Can I go home?” he asked when he had finished.

“Of course, my boy,” Dieter said, and Kurt’s stomach jumped. “Let me get you something to wear.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt said, already pushing himself slowly up onto his feet. “I don’t need – it’s fine.” Once upright, his heart began pounding even harder, and the edges of his vision blurred. For a moment, he just stood still. Then, painstakingly, he started to climb out of the font. He didn’t trust himself to keep his balance; Kurt sat down on the lip and swung his legs over one at a time.

“Kurt, let me give you a ride,” Werner offered.

“No, thank you,” Kurt chirped. He was so close. So close to putting distance between himself and the people who had hurt him. His friends? He couldn’t think about that right now. It was all he could think about. His heart felt like it was going to explode.

He made for the door at a woozy, meandering pace that might have seemed moderate but was in fact the fastest he could move. One step at a time. Each one felt like a gargantuan effort. He was acutely aware of their eyes on him.

“I’m parked right here,” Werner protested.

“It’s okay,” Kurt repeated, trying hard to keep the desperation out of his voice. And then he stumbled just before the doorframe, falling hard onto one knee. He tried to play it off, but his arms were weak, and he just stayed down when he knew too long had passed to pull himself up and keep going. Tears of frustration nagged at his eyes. When Werner appeared at his side and scooped him up, Kurt didn’t fight it, leaning his weight heavily against the man.

“Get some rest,” Dieter called after him. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Good night,” Kurt said in his best attempt at a casual tone. Werner walked him to his car and helped him into the front seat. The slam of the driver’s side door made Kurt’s breath quicken. He’d been in this car with Werner a dozen times before, but now he felt his presence looming over him, suffocating. The silence in the car was heady, all outside noise sealed away. Kurt opened the window and breathed in the cold night air. He counted seconds.

“Hey,” Werner said suddenly. Kurt swallowed thickly. “I hope you know we all care about you a lot. You know that’s why we did this. Yeah?”

“I know,” Kurt said. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to be near him another instant. He wished he hadn’t teleported so many times that day. He wished he’d eaten afterward. He wished he hadn’t agreed to come to the church. He wished his mother hadn’t left.

Kurt’s stomach clenched. His mother. She would be back the day after tomorrow. With a sudden, unwavering clarity, he thought, _she’ll kill them all._

“Are you cold? You’re shivering.”

Kurt hadn’t even noticed. “Just tired,” he said. This wasn’t even a lie. He was exhausted beyond words. Werner shot him a sympathetic glance.

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

The car crept to a stop, and Kurt climbed out without being prompted. “Thank you for the ride,” he said.

“Yeah, of course.” Werner’s brows were knitted thoughtfully together.

“Good night,” Kurt said hastily, and darted for his front door before Werner could say anything more. He hesitated with his hand on the handle, and his knees almost gave out then and there.

His keys. Kurt’s reaction was visceral; he felt his lungs turn to stone, his ears began to ring. When they had cut off his clothes, his keys had been in his pocket. His mother wasn’t back until the day after tomorrow. Would he have to knock on Sabu’s door, or one of the other circus folk, and have them see him like this? What would they say? What would he? Worse, would Werner take him back to Father Dieter’s to spend the night? Or his own house? He pictured sleeping on the couch and eating breakfast the next morning with Werner and his father and—

“I have your keys,” Werner said from behind him. Kurt turned. Werner had climbed out of the car and was walking toward Kurt, dangling the little ring of metal from his fingertips. “Here,” he said, depositing them into Kurt’s palm. Kurt melted with relief.

“Thank you,” he said with genuine gratitude. How many times today had he thanked the people that had done this to him? He unlocked the door with a shaking hand.

“I’ll come by tomorrow?” Werner offered. “Check up on you?”

“There’s no need,” Kurt said hurriedly. “I’ll be fine. I’m not sure what time I’ll wake up,” he added.

“Okay.” Werner’s brow wrinkled with concern. “In a few days, then. I really think things will be better for you now, Kurt,” he said. “I really do.” Kurt nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything further. Werner hesitated for a moment, moved his arm out towards Kurt, but reconsidered at the sight of the extensive bandages. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” Kurt said back, then stepped inside and closed the door as calmly as he could manage. The moment he locked it, relief flooded his veins like a drug. Safe. Safe was in his room, in his bed, but home was good enough. The tension that had been keeping him on his feet ebbed away. He let out the most profound sigh of his life, and then started to sink to the floor. He was halfway to asleep before he even realized what he was doing.

I could sleep right here, he thought. Right by the door. He felt the pit of hunger in his stomach, but was almost too tired to acknowledge it. He was almost certain he could sleep through it. But there would be more than enough pain to face the next day already. For long minutes, he did nothing but repeat to himself in his head, I have to get up, over and over and over.

It was a heroic display of willpower to get back onto his feet and walk to the kitchen. His eyes were drifting shut in earnest now, and he made it with one hand against the wall, mostly feeling his way along. Once there, he started to eat with animal urgency. Kurt bent his head into the sink and drank water straight from the tap. He rifled through cabinets and the fridge and shoved food into his face almost without looking at it. He was sweating under the bandages, almost feverishly, despite feeling cold. He could feel it running down his back. Some powerful, strange craving compelled him to eat spoonfuls of plain sugar.

Then he was waking up on the kitchen floor. Disoriented and half-aware, Kurt blinked up at his fridge for a few befuddled seconds before realizing where he was. It was still pitch dark outside. He hissed getting up; he’d leaned on his bandaged arm when he’d fallen unconscious, and a few spots of red blood had managed their way through the layers of gauze. It hurt, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t form a clear thought – he needed sleep like he needed air. Single-minded about the image of his pillow and the soft surface of his bed, he stood up on shaky legs.

There was a loaf of bread already in his hand, and he dragged it up into his room with him, trudging painstakingly up the stairs on all fours. With his last ounce of strength he climbed up onto his bed.

He fell asleep flat on his back, and dreamed of nothing at all.

 

Kurt had no concept of how long he actually slept. He awoke at sunrise for a few fleeting seconds, then again when his room started to heat up uncomfortably. That time he reached over, closed the blinds, and fell back asleep almost immediately. The third time he arose to use the bathroom, and the sight of his bandaged face in the mirror startled him into full alertness.

Almost as the sight had brought it on, Kurt felt all at once the sharp soreness all over his body. He took a moment to shut his eyes and breathe. Five of them – at least, maybe more were involved. Tied him down, cut off his clothes, and hurt him with relentless precision. Made sure it would scar. Be permanent. It felt unreal. Like it had happened to someone else. The image of blood pooling in his elbows slammed itself into his head before he could stop it. Dark and warm, running down the sides of his thighs, collecting in his belly button, pattering down into the marble—

He shook his head. Then he looked back up at his appalling, gauze-covered face in the mirror. How _could_ they? They wouldn’t. They _knew_ him. They had.

He swallowed down the thick lump of hurt in his throat, then reached for his toothbrush with a shaking hand. His heart still felt like it was fluttering in his chest. He made one trip around the house, locking every door and window, then lay back on his bed and waited for the day to pass and for his mother to come home.

 

Margali stopped in to buy food before coming home, because since she’d been loaned a car she may as well make the most of it. When Rachel spotted her across the store, she looked momentarily so surprised to see her that it bordered on alarm. But when Margali smiled at her, the woman hoisted her purse tighter over her shoulder and approached her.

“Hello, Margali,” she said, a little hesitantly. “How is it going?”

“Not too bad,” she said. “Just got back, picking some food since leaving Kurt alone means I am probably returning to an empty fridge.”

Rachel’s face smoothed out. She moved her head up and down in one very slow nod. “You haven’t been home yet,” she deduced.

“No, not yet.”

“So you haven’t seen Kurt?”

An alarm bell went off somewhere in Margali’s head. “No,” she said carefully. “Why? Is he all right?”

There was a beat. “Of course,” Rachel said. Margali set down her basket.

“Did something happen?” she said in a low voice.

Rachel swallowed. The way she paused, thoughtful, carefully sifting through her mind for the right words was what made Margali turn around and hurry home without another word.

 

She put her key into the lock with a racing heart. Instinct told her to brace herself, so she announced herself the moment she cracked open the door.

“Kurt!” she called. “I’m home! Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Mama?” a voice called from the kitchen. She made a beeline toward it, and Kurt quietly warned, “I’m hurt.” Margali slowed. “Don’t be scared.”

She turned into the room and saw him, mouth and wide eyes the only things visible from beneath the dirty bandaging. It was the closest she had ever come to screaming at the sight of her son. They stood there looking at each other for a horrified moment.

“Oh, love,” she breathed, eyes filling with hot tears. She swallowed them down. “I’m so sorry.” She came over to embrace him, but there was no safe place to touch him, so she took his hands in hers and kissed his knuckles. He sank into a chair with slow, heavy movements, unsure of what to say. “When?” she asked him. He looked down.

“A few hours after you left.” Margali ground her teeth so hard she thought she heard them crack. Kurt picked at the top layer of bandaging on his leg. Anxiously, he shifted in his seat. “I have to…” he gestured helplessly at the gauze. “I’m supposed to...”

“Change it?” Margali prompted. He nodded. She took a sharp breath through her nose. “Let’s go do that, then,” she said with purpose, stretching her arm out toward him. Looking lost, he stood and took her offered hand, wrapping his tail around her wrist like when he was a small child. She led him slowly up the stairs.

It looked like a massive effort for him to make each step, but he didn’t stop or pause. By the top, he was breathing heavily enough that she could hear it. He caught her staring.

“Just,” he shook his head, “still tired.”

She sat him on the lip of the tub and started to unwind the bandages from around his shoulders.  “Tell me what happened,” she said.

“I…” Kurt shook his head, looking lost. “You’ll see it in a second, mama,” he said evasively. She peeled off roll after roll of progressively dirtier gauze until she reached the soiled bottom layer, large rust-brown stains through the fabric adhering it to his skin. Margali ran the bath and made him sit in it. She threw the bandages she’d taken off into the corner, a heap of worn cotton and dried blood. She pulled any first-aid materials she could find out of the cupboards and set them in a line on the floor. Kurt cupped his hands and wet the bandages still stuck to his face.

Margali sat on the floor and rested an elbow on the tub. Kurt picked at the gauze stuck to his thighs. Over the years of trapeze mishaps, she had become familiar enough with the sight of bruising on his skin to recognize the black around his wrists and forearms for what it was. She held back her revulsion and said nothing.

“Who was it, baby?” she asked him.

Kurt’s face crumpled in a sudden sorrowful spasm, and he winced as tiny spots of blood bloomed on his cheeks through the white. Margali grimaced in sympathy. “It—” he began, but cut himself off, frustrated. The bandages he was picking at floated suddenly off his legs, and he pulled all the remaining gauze away and dropped it on the floor in a wet heap.

Margali wasn’t precisely sure what she had been expecting. But when she understood what she was looking at, the deliberate, careful map of wounds, a violent flash of anger ignited in her veins.

She took a few breaths, and the last one came out nearly as a growl. “Who was it?” she asked again. Kurt shook his head, rubbing his wet hands over his skin, carefully scrubbing away dried blood. “Kurt, who was it?” she asked a third time. Her voice wavered, the words becoming less steady on her tongue. She cleared her throat, tried to settle the ferality she could feel building measuredly inside her. “Who hurt you?”

“It’s not,” he started helplessly. He licked his lips, tried again. “It isn’t— I can’t—” He dropped his head defeatedly to his chest. “No one, mama.”

“Kurt,” she said carefully, “you have to tell me who it was.” He shook his head like a small child. “No,” she said, more harshly than she’d intended to. Willfully, she tried to soften her voice. “I am your mother. You can’t not tell me. You have to give me their names.”

Kurt’s brows knitted together, like he was trying hard. But then his face dissolved into despair, and Margali could see the words die in his throat. “Why?” he blurted.

“Why? _”_ Margali repeated, incredulous. “So I can tear them apart.”

He swallowed painfully. The warm water was making him woozy. “No one,” he said weakly.

“Kurt.”

“I did it,” he said. “I did it to myself.”

Margali’s surprise was overshadowed almost immediately by her rage. “No, you didn’t,” she said through her teeth.

“I did,” he insisted. Margali rubbed her eyes.

“Was it Father Dieter?” she tried.

Kurt started to shake, goosebumps coming out all over his skin despite the warm water. “I did it to myself,” he said again.

“Why are you saying that?” she asked, a hair’s breadth away from snapping. He looked at her with the saddest eyes.

“Because it’s true.”

Margali’s resolve shattered like glass. “To yourself,” she said bitterly. “You took a knife and carved up your own face?”

He flinched at her tone. “Yes.”

“Where?” she challenged. He stared owlishly at her. “Where did you do it?”

“At home. In the bathroom.”

“Which knife did you use?” she pressed.

“The –” he faltered, “the little one in the kitchen. With the black handle.”

“And what about the blood?”

“There was lots,” he said, voice cracking. Then, realizing her meaning, he said, “I cleaned it up.”

Margali was relentless. “What are the symbols? Where did you learn them?”

“They’re,” Kurt swallowed thickly. His eyes began to brim with tears, “they’re angelic symbols. I – I found them. In a book.”

“Which book?”

Tears spilled over and raced down his cheeks. “Mama, please,” he whined.

“Tell me the truth,” she ordered.

“I am…”

“No, you aren’t,” she said, voice growing louder. “You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me? You think I don’t _know_? Who hurt you?” She begged. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“No one,” he said, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t…”

“Kurt,” she said, putting a careful hand on his marred cheek. Her eyes were dark with hurt. “Listen to me. You have to tell me the truth. Right now. You have to.”

His face screwed up then, collapsed in on itself like a crushed can, and he hissed in pain at the cuts on his cheeks and brow screaming in response. Tears slid down his cheeks. He tried to school his face back into blankness, but he was crying, and he couldn’t manage it. The scabs were cracking under the expressions of his anguish. He shook his head. Margali took her hand off him. “You’d rather have me believe my son mutilated himself than tell me who it was? You’re fine with me going to sleep thinking I couldn’t teach you to love yourself like I love you?”

He shook his head, sniffling. “Stop,” he begged.

“Kurt, who _was_ it?”

“Me,” he said weakly.

“Why?” she demanded. Her chest ached. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“ _Because look at me!”_

He collapsed into tears then, and she sat there on the floor beside him, watching him cry with a feeling of helplessness so overpowering she could barely move. She was so angry her hands were shaking. “Please stop asking, mama,” he said brokenly.

Margali craned her head back and stared blankly at the ceiling for a few long moments. Then she looked back down at her weeping son, reached into the murky water, and took one of his hands. “Shh,” she soothed. She brought his hand to her lips. “All right.” She climbed up and sat on the lip of the tub. She stroked his hair until his tears slowed and his breathing evened out. “Climb out, love,” she said, resigned. “I’ll put on some new dressings.”

He did what she said without a word, and she cleaned the scabbing wounds and wrapped him up in fresh layers of gauze. When he redressed, she followed him to his room and climbed onto his bed with him. He moved gratefully aside to make room for her. Then he turned to her, wide glowing eyes in a sea of bandages.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked in a near whisper. She pulled the blankets up over him. All she could think about was the careful symmetry of the design of wounds over her child. How much planning it must have taken. How much time to cut. She thought of him alone in the house afterwards. The way he couldn’t even make himself admit aloud what they had done. Margali ran a hand through his hair and took a breath so deep her lungs burned.

“I’ve never been more furious in my life.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the only explanation for his scars - and why in X2 he tells people he did them himself - that I will accept. I've been annoyed about this for like fifteen years and nowI have decided to finally do something about it.
> 
> I had to get this done before Dark Phoenix came out even though they will not address his scars at all and most likely Kurt will get like 5 total minutes of screentime lol. Such is the struggle of Nightcrawler fans.


End file.
